


Made To Love

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 06:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17360909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: In infinite time with infinite loops, Lu Han's sure that in every single one, he was supposed to love this person. This soul.





	Made To Love

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic, from sncj's bigbang

Lu Han falls in love when he’s 7. Peeking over his father’s tent to sneak glances at a grainy Japanese film—something in muted, green tint about preindustrial Japan, something with long shots of cherry blossoms, long forlorn glances, _love_.

Lu Han’s been watching for the past hour, kicking his legs restlessly, swatting at the lazy flies buzzing around his head, as his father screams about his wares.

And it’s boring, in poor quality, flashing from behind a dusty panasonic, but it passes the time. Drags him away from the hot press of the California sun. The idle need to run and find his place.

The protagonist stumbles after the heroine. Makes as if to grab at her. Tripping in his desperation. There’s a sharp cut to a fleeting, pale ankle. The man’s broken eyes. (Lu Han gasps at that, and his father laughs from where he’s rearranging cosmetics). The man reaches out a feeble hand, and that bleeds into a change of scenes. The camera pans up a long, thin arm. Drags over a soft cheek, sharp eyes. A street sweeper, brushing away the cherry blossoms from the night before. (An insignificant, unnamed, uncredited extra, Lu Han later discovers).

And there’s a sudden jolt in Lu Han’s heart. Something like pieces sliding into place. He shifts in his seat, falls to his knees, and crawls over across the dirty swap mart tarp. Like a child—a younger child—heedless of his father’s sharp Mandarin, the other tent owner’s little squeak of surprise.

Lu Han is seven, thin-skinned, combative, tongue and brain and soul stumbling as he tries to acquaint himself with the affected monotony of English, reconcile.

Lu Han reaches out to brush his fingers against the dusty glass screen as his father scoops him up, apologizes in a speedy, but stilted, broken rush.

And Lu Han protests, kicks, and squirms until he’s set down anew. He presses his nose so close that he can taste the dust specks, that his eyes cross. The scene has changed. But that pair of street sweeper eyes—for those tense few seconds the camera captured his face—Lu Han _loves_. Lu Han _knows_. Because in that moment, his heart—his _soul_ —speaks. And Lu Han knows with a startling certainty that this—this—was a glimpse into his destiny. Why he was _made_.

His father laughs about it—after Lu Han’s been forced to apologize, after he’s been scolded to the point of tears about proper behavior, about how you can’t just act on impulse; that’s not the way the world works and that’s _not_ the way we raised you, that’s not... that’s not why we came here—but indulges him later, jokes as he remarks on seeing the spark in those eyes once more.

And the next morning, at the swap mart, after his father’s set up his stand, and after his mother’s baked an apology cake, his father reintroduces himself to their neighbor. Asks about the film. Lu Han hides behind his father’s leg, presses his face into his hip as money changes hands.

But that certainty, that clarity remains. That he’s supposed to, supposed to—

 

“I want to be an actor,” he tells his parents over smothered tortas on cheap plastic tables. He pauses to take a sip of his horchata, squints down and traces patterns against the styrofoam cup as he mumbles. The warm drone of activity and the warm sun feel almost stifling as Lu Han stutters out that he just really really wants to be an actor. Not a doctor. Not an engineer. “I want to make people feel like what—”

His father sets down his sandwich, breathes deeply. Lu Han tenses in anticipation. But then his father _cries_. Big fat tears, his face contorting into something ugly and vulnerable, and Lu Han’s mother’s hand curls around his shoulder, squeezing hard as his father wheezes.

Lu Han cries, too.

“You _can_ ,” he gasps out, curving forward, hand heavy as it falls against Lu Han’s bent, trembling head. “You—you _can_.”

And it’s a heavy weight on his thin shoulders. The burden of his father’s dream, his sacrifice, his approval.

And Lu Han wipes at his nose with his shirt sleeve as his heart implodes from it.

 

That’s the story that he recounts in his scholarship essay 10 years later. Zeroing in on immigrant child diaspora angst. The vague knowledge of his father’s first home and the steady brush of warm, work-calloused fingers against Lu Han’s chin as his head lolled back towards the caress, mind lulled by the familiar delicate frailty of Chinese tones. About channeling the _ache_ , validating his parents’ wishes. Making it count.

(He leaves out the part where he wears out that VHS tape to shreds, rewinding it over and over again, until that man’s eyes are burned into his irises, tattooed on his brain. How Lu Han dreams about him sometimes, too. How he scours the internet for his name. His face. His _anything_. And how it _hurts_ in a strange way. Like blood rushing back to a limb that’s fallen asleep. Like a phantom ache in his bones. Only when the rain comes. Only when the moon shines. And how he _knows_ —he almost _remembers_ —but _what_ exactly, with whom, when, he’s not quite sure. It only comes in flashes, in vivid almost-recollections that leave Lu Han gasping, twisted in his sheets. That he’s a constant, too)

It’s the memory he clings to through the painful semesters away from home, sustaining him through the long intervals between Skype calls and his mother’s cooking, through the bitter disappointments as Lu Han learns to work with his face, prettier than it should be honestly. Soft and delicate, but _malleable_. Oversized eyes, a button nose, too thick eyelashes, perpetually pursed lips; a sort of accessible attractiveness he twists, studies, breaks open, puts back together, as he slathers on makeup, as he rehearses lines, as he learns to put on another person’s skin. Wear another person’s sorrow, another person’s happiness. Speak as another soul.

(Lu Han continues to ache, to itch to find his own skin. His own purpose _beyond_ this)

 

And that’s the story he comes back to at 21; drained, frustrated, absentminded and apologetic, coming back to himself when Baekhyun (American name: “Ben”)—director on a power trip—screams at him about messing up his hair, looking like a fucking _idiot_ , as Lu Han scratches idly at his head, asks for his line. _It’s the worst fucking tell,_ Baekhyun had warned during preliminary auditions, again after he’d cast Lu Han as lead. _Yunho, Yunho was lenient about it because you’re cute. But I won’t be because fuck you, Lu Han._

And Baekhyun is small, but menacing, grating. It’s 3pm, and he means well. He means well.

“Two fucking weeks,” he screeches nonetheless. “Two fucking weeks, Lu Han. You’re my _lead_ —you can’t fucking _do_ this to me.”

“Baek—”

“You _can’t_ —” he interrupts pitchily. “You fucking _can’t_.” He stands up, sits back down, stands up once more, fists clenched at his sides. And at Lu Han’s side, Tao bites back a laugh. “Just fucking—Go the fuck home and learn your fucking lines. Learn your fucking character. I honestly can’t deal with you right now. You’re a fucking _disappointment_. You think just—just because you’re good, you can—”

He throws down his playbook, storms childishly away, probably to collapse on the red velveteen couch he keeps in the glorified storage closet he calls his waiting room. But Lu Han only smiles apologetically, bows at a blinking Tao, as Kyungsoo—director’s assistant, part-time makeup artist, all around stage _mom_ —nods sympathetically, dismisses the rest with a wave of his fingers.

Lu Han’s shoulder slump. He can feel tears gathering around his eyelashes, dragging against the thick black along his waterline.

“He loves the sound of his own voice,” Yixing, one of the stage hands, his best friend of three years, whispers, slinking forward. To squeeze his shoulders. Pressing their cheeks together to speak in between soft presses of his fingers. “He’s throwing a tantrum. He doesn’t mean what he says. _Everyone_ forgets their lines once in a while. It’s not like you aren’t the best he’s ever directed.”

Lu Han grimaces, tenses, but doesn't move away.

“So let’s go get some food while the baby calms down.”

 

Yixing blinks at him in the hard afternoon light as he speaks around a fry. Sleepy enthusiasm, slow syllables, his voice a languid drawl of Mandarin, English, and something special in between.

They’ve been best friends since theatre club in freshmen year. When they sat next to each other—in a show of Chinese kid solidarity—eating White Chocolate Macadamia cookies, discussing their favorite films. They had _clicked_. Something like kindred spirits, Yixing insisted. Believing in that type of thing. Later indulging Lu Han’s eventual shameful confession to the dreams. To the draw. The constant tug. The almost human shaped hole in his soul.

“You’ve been really distracted lately,” Yixing observes. “Is it the dreams again? Is it _him_?”

They’ve been a constant companion, a persistent presence. And they’ve been getting more vivid. Bleeding and _intruding_ into real life. Pressing insistently against his temple. Blinding his field of vision. Assaulting him with confusing, half-formed fantasies.

Lu Han nods slowly, taking a long draw of his coke.

The dreams have adapted with age. Morphed and evolved with his needs. And he’s not always a lover. Not always a him. Just a _somebody_. A _somebody_ important. Occupying a too large place. Compelling him forward. There’s always a magnetic draw, the need to press _tighter_ , touch _more_. Sometimes—sometimes he loves him, kisses, holds him back. Claims and breaks and devastates. With eyes—almond-shaped, cutting, liquid, black— that haunt. Scorch.

Lu Han feels the pang across multiple lives, across multiple universes.

And Yixing believes him, says it’s because Lu Han’s heart is too open, or that this _somebody_ is just too important. Your red thread. Your fucking destiny. Over and over again.

“It’s like—tapping into something. It’s like peeling at the veneer—This, this _play_ —it’s like these are things we did at one point. Like I _loved_ him with these words.” Lu Han scratches hard at the back of his head, as he exhales loudly. Yixing’s hand closes around his wrist. “I told him I loved him under those apple trees, you know. I—I held his hand. I kissed him. I _loved_ him. Just exactly like this.”

Yixing nods solemnly, drops his hand, reaches forward with the other to tap against the lid of his fountain drink, fingers dancing as his lips purse in thought.

“You’re getting close to the source,” he notes, tone heavy. “You’re gonna find him soon.”

Lu Han shakes his head. Wonders whether it’s better or worse for his best friend to enable this delusion. Whether it’s better or worse to know that it’s all been prearranged before this. That it’s just pole meeting pole, matter fusing together once more. A sort of breakdown from complex to simple. Atom finding atom. Converging anew. Puzzle pieces fitting together. You becoming whole once more.

Yixing keeps insisting, and Lu Han isn’t even sure he knows what he wants.

“I’ve been in love with him since I was 7 years old. That’s 14—14 fucking years.”

“No,” Yixing says, squinting thoughtfully, nail scraping against plastic. “No, you’ve been in love with him much, much longer.”

 

Lu Han’s character is named Lee. The play is called _Of Orange Blossoms and Painted Faces_ , an edgy, _unapologetic_ exploration of sex, sentimentality, sin, forbidden love. In turn of the century California, the tagline reads, one man dares to dream, dares to love.

It’s bold. Controversial. But still classy, all the sex scenes filmed in silhouettes billowing behind golden sheets.

Lee is a circus performer. A clown. A born entertainer. With a shameful secret. A love that dares not speak it’s name.

Lu Han plays opposite Tao, an ambitious, talented sophomore. Soft-voiced, soft-hearted, but hard where it counts. Sleek muscles, dark eyes, and a certain understated aggression. John, a lion tamer, hot-headed, demanding. He drags Lu Han by the hips, tugs at his wig, smears at Lu Han’s painted face.

Lu Han tries not to breathe hard through his mouth, clench his eyes shut, scrape his own fingernails against the crown of his head. Torn between exorcising the vision and chasing the overwhelming headlines off it.

And Baekhyun tries not to have a stress headache. Fails at it, mostly. Kyungsoo and Yixing sooth him through it, but they’ve been preparing for so _long_.

Tao blinks at Lu Han, smiles sheepishly. In an almost apology.

 

And they _have_ been preparing for a long, long time. _Months_. Production started right after a successful rendition of A Christmas Carol. They melt now in their stage makeup, fanning themselves with the collars of their costumes.

It’s been intense.

Late nights in the humid gym, running lines and blocking scenes.

Long weekends spent in cramped dorm rooms—usually, almost exclusively Kyungsoo’s—watching period films for research, getting into _character_.

And early mornings, like these.

Lu Han, crosslegged, laughs as he watches Chanyeol and Jongdae flirt, tease, throw shit at one another, smear paint on each other’s skin. In half hour intervals of working hard, slacking off, as Kyungsoo chides them in sharp growls. At which point they curl forward, murmur in mocking imitation as they paint in broad, smooth strokes, tongues peeking out in concentration, dark heads pressed together.

Lu Han’s body is twisted, spine curved. With a yellow highlighter between his teeth, annotating his lines, whispering them softly to himself in between mouthfuls of Costco Supreme pizza.

It’s a Wednesday, four days after their last rehearsal, and Lu Han is watching the way the muscles shift underneath Chanyeol’s arms, zoning in and out of consciousness, flirting with another almost memory. The whisper of fingers across his navel, the sharp smell of oil paint, stained fingertips and Lu Han’s voice—his voice in another time— _I’m your muse, I’m your muse._

“You’re pretty when you do that,” Chanyeol says absently, blinking up from where he’s painting a cloud, interrupting Lu Han’s thought, eviscerating the almost memory.

His canvas is still more white than blue. Ten days, Kyungsoo had insisted just a half hour before, toeing at the canvas with the tip of his sneaker. Ten days, Park Chanyeol, I fucking _swear_.

“When you scrunch up your face,” Chanyeol continues, laying his brush down. “When your eyes glaze over like that. Really pretty.”

He holds up a thumb in approval as he nods and laughs. But Lu Han still finds himself flushing darkly. At Chanyeol’s side, Jongdae’s face twists into a wry grin, his eyebrow raising and lips curling in a “this guy” face.

Lu Han snorts.

But Kyungsoo’s scold cuts clear through the gymnasium. Sharp, biting. Korean, Lu Han thinks, and Chanyeol and Jongdae grimace, mock him once more as he turns around.

Kyungsoo curses them absently, as if sensing it. And then continues in English, venomously informing them that he could probably find some extra eager freshmen from the Theatre 101 class that would take this seriously. Maybe even fucking high schoolers. You know, people that didn’t have the attention span and maturity of a pair of kindergarteners.

Kyungsoo has a soft spot for them, though. And he smiles back begrudgingly as they grin at him from underneath their twin _Theatre Homie_ visors.

“Really pretty,” Chanyeol repeats, wiping at the corner of his mouth, smearing gray paint on his hoodie sleeve.

 

And there’s that small comfort, Lu Han thinks. That Thursday, when another dream comes unbidden, as he attempts to unwind, flipping through the channels on his satellite TV. He lingers on an independent Logo film, tilting his head to side, thumbing absently at his bangs. The female lead—one of the female leads—explodes in an climatic fit, confesses that she can’t lie to herself any longer. They tear at their clothes as they fall into each other.

And Lu Han remembers soft hands sliding down Lu Han’s stomach with a tense, breathless question. Stolen kisses, the wax of _another_ woman’s—because Lu Han, Lu Han is also a woman, terrified but _wanting_ —lipstick mixing with her own as pink, delicate fingertips _ease ease eased_ their way under a tight skirt, past polka dotted cotton until Lu Han couldn’t breathe.

He’s pretty, at least, he recalls, as he wheezes, head spinning, _hard_.

He’s pretty, even though it hurts.

 

It always, _always_ hurts.

Even when it’s beautiful. Even when it’s amusing. Even when it just passes the time.

It aches. It stings. It—he bleeds.

Whenever they meet, he imagines, dreams, _remembers_. Whenever they _collide_ , it’s cosmic.

And the scars, the scars don’t quite heal. Not quite right. Not all the way. They translate across lifetimes. Stitched ugly and jagged along the edges of his heart. Multiply with every subsequent explosion. It’s the perpetual, painful, _perfect_ ripple effect. From that one point in time when they were meant to be, never learned to let go.

And the man, _he_ —Lu Han’s fated one—knows where to press down to make it even worse. Knows where it hurts the most. The man—his soulmate—has made Lu Han bleed, in the past, in other lifetimes. He’s scrapped against him, left him crooked and broken, and Lu Han, Lu Han’s made him bleed, too. Torn him open. Broken apart all the fragile beauty in him. Always desperate, desperate to _keep_ or otherwise ruin for anybody else.

Because even in infinite time with infinite loops, Lu Han's sure that in every single one, he was supposed to love _this_ person. _This_ soul.

And Lu Han just moves with the sluggish heaviness of a romantic without purpose until then. Because Lu Han knows that _he_ , he exists for this moment, too. They are parallel lines, parallel lives until they collide, coalesce, explode, devastate one another. _Love, love, love_.

But at least, Lu Han reasons, he’s pretty.

And at least, when Lu Han finds him, he’ll be wanted back. Loved in the most deliciously tender, painfully beautiful way. Before... before he shatters.

But all he has right now, all he can cling to are the half-formed, shrouded memories. The ones he’s too scared to plumb further.

 

That next Monday, second to the last rehearsal, another day dream intrudes. It’s the richest one yet.

The smell of alcohol is sharp in Lu Han’s nose, and Lu Han can taste him. Feel the burn on his skin where he was touched. Marked. _Loved_. And his chest, his skin is too tight as he meets his eyes in the fading light of their tent. He _takes_ him, smothers his moans with a hand pressed tight to Lu Han’s trembling lips. Rushed and hot. And then again, the flame is licking across the planes of his face as he kisses away his whimpers, tearing him apart piece by piece until he’s pure sensation, pure need.

Lu Han jerks awake with a sudden jolt. Gasping, gulping for air, and he’s trembling in his costume, he’s hard in his loose pants.

“You’re making it worse!” Baekhyun shrieks, as Lu Han scratches at his head. He tries to force a memory, expel an _almost_ , clear his thoughts.

Lu Han jolts, trembles in the present, as Baek throws a blunt object—his _sandwich_ —with more anger than accuracy. It bounces off Lu Han’s feet as he wheezes out a call for his line.

“It’s not that serious,” Kyungsoo argues back. Voice steel. “It’s not that big a deal. Fucking _chill_.”

But it’s in five fucking days, and it _is_ a big deal. And Lu Han’s understudy—his fucking understudy doesn’t do this, does he?

Lu Han shakes his head. His bones feel wrong and his body, a strange fit and everything is hot and foreign and new. And Kyungsoo is cupping his cheeks, thumbing insistently under his eyelids. He turns and screams about how Lu Han needs a break. He worries after his makeup, then, smearing foundation extra thick under his eyes. “You’re not sleeping,” Kyungsoo notes softly. Lu Han jerks. Kyungsoo tugs him back. “That impairs your cognitive functions, you know.” Lu Han nods, and Kyungsoo sighs, heavy and long-suffering as he pats Lu Han’s head.

“Stop making me _worry_ about you, Lu Han. You’re _better_ than this.”

“But Baekhyun—”

“I’ve been doing this for 3 years. Succeeding at it, too. I can handle Baekhyun.”

 

A good 15 minutes later, Baekhyun returns.

He breathes slowly. Inhales deeply. Exhales heavily through his pursed lips. Crisis mode. He murmurs absently to himself before penciling in another rehearsal. Just—just for you. With Yixing this time. Maybe Tao. Baekhyun turns to call for him, and Tao’s shoulders roll smoothly under his tanktop as he nods with an easy smile.

 

Blocking, character study, method acting means that Tao has become a semi-permanent fixture in his life.

There’s affection bubbling in Lu Han’s chest as Tao sits beside him on the stage. Kicks his shoe against Lu Han’s own as he murmurs about how weird it feels to play at being in _love_ with him. Lu Han laughs with a nod, mind still foggy, head and heart heavy. And Tao noses softly at the sleeve of his shirt. Tao, softer now that he isn’t playing at aggression, smoothes Lu Han’s bangs back with a breathed out whiny _ge_. “Stop making him mad,” he chides softly. “Stop making me worry.”

“You’re just worried about getting wrinkles.”

Tao kicks Lu Han’s again. Harder this time.

 

They’ve got chemistry; they are aesthetically pleasing, a good play of contrasts. And Tao is good. Really fucking good.

And the way Tao looks at him sometimes, the way he pitches his voice, reminds Lu Han in a disconcertingly similar way.

And he shouldn’t be so abrasive, shouldn’t touch him so roughly, drag him into bruising kisses, relentless as he presses against Lu Han with heavy rolls of his hips. _Demanding_ that Lu Han—Lee—stop fighting this, just _love_ please.

And no, Lu Han was the one begging, scrambling, smearing his makeup against the collar of the man’s costume, scraping his teeth against the man’s neck. Pleading with his touches, with his words _please keep me, please don’t leave me I need you I need you I need—_

And no, he shouldn’t be taller. Broader. No, he should be pulling Lu Han down by the nape of his neck, should have Lu Han curling, gasping as he melts into too-hot, too-perfect, too-heady touches that leave him starved for more. Panting about how he _dreams_ about this. How Lu Han feels most complete with him. Scraping against him, dragging inside of him, tearing him apart. Even if it’s not quite close enough. Even if, even if he’s always thirsting for more.

Tao’s grip is unforgiving as he brushes his lips to just the corner of Lu Han’s mouth.

It’s so vivid, it always takes him a while to recover, breathing labored, eyes glazed, as Tao drops his shoulders back, smooths his eyebrows, smiles.

 

Baekhyun calls him to ask about his schedule, maybe—maybe he can come in again on Wednesday. Maybe noonish. Baekhyun has already asked his Sociology professor. He exhales extra loudly in disappointment, voice cracking Lu Han’s speaker phone when Lu Han rests his head against his desk, tells Baekhyun how he has a history lecture and then Spanish, and he can’t miss either. He’s only taking 12 units this semester and he can’t afford to miss anymore classes. Can’t afford less than stellar grades if he wants to keep his scholarship.

“I want it out of your system,” he says. “Can you—maybe after five? I’ll buy you dinner.”

Lu Han agrees after a pause.

 

And Lu Han misses Yunho, then. He’d been a legend of sorts. Tall and handsome and charming and kind-eyed and _talented_. He had been Lu Han’s mentor, his hero. Impressed, too. _Moved_ , Yunho had told him, smiling at him as Lu Han, dazzled, blinked up at him rapidly through the thickness of his false eyelashes. _You play longing well._

Indulgent, Lu Han later learned. Patient.

And maybe—maybe, the closest Lu Han ever came to loving somebody else.

“You’ve got _something_ ,” he’d told him, squeezing his knee, as they sat cross legged across from one another, making Lu Han’s heart flutter in his chest, making his skin feel extra hot beneath the sweat and smeared stage makeup, beneath the heat of approval and acceptance and success. “You’re gonna be a star.”

But that night after his first show, that night, with his skin burning from Yunho’s casual caress was filled with a painfully vivid sticky sweet recollection.

And Lu Han, a woman, then. Blonde, wide-eyed, beautiful. “You’re a star,” the man had promised, voice soft and seductive, but sincere. Eyes soft, fingers reverent as they traced along his lips. “You deserve the world. And I’m—I’m gonna make sure you get it.”

(But he'd left Lu Han. Cracked her heart in two)

 

And Yunho’s passed the torch, and Baekhyun just wants his moment to shine, his moment to count.

 

On Wednesday, Lu Han recites his monologue, questions why this started. Says that maybe, maybe they should just stop. He chokes on his words. The agony of it, thick in his voice as the lights fade to black.

And Baekhyun, Baekhyun is screaming again, about how he _can’t_ quit Lu Han. No he _can’t_ , not when Lu Han... not when Lu Han can do _this_.

 

That Thursday, the book jacket sticks to Lu Han's forehead as he falls forward, head clunking against his _Queerness in Theatre_ book.

(Lu Han _has_ other responsibilities, he’d sniffed at Yixing. Has other classes. Other commitments. This isn’t his _everything_ like it is for Baekhyun. Lu Han won’t allow it to be his everything the way it is for Baekhyun)

And it’s as his nose drags along the spine, catching on the “Discount: Used” sticker, as Lu Han inhales deeply, in frustration and exhaustion, that old book smell tickling his nose, his own fingers at his temples, pausing to massage across his scalp, mind fluttering between wakefulness and slumber that he starts to almost _see_.

 

Lu Han, a tutor, patronized, is perpetually drunk on the scent of _her_ underneath her clothes.

And she’s thick on his tongue, still, when he presses her against bookshelves, hands burning a trail up her spread thighs. He gets lost in the luster of black, black eyes, dancing in the afternoon light.

And in that moment, there’s only the sharp smell of dusty book jackets, fragrant, stifling tickling as his nose, as he buries his face in her neck, licking insistently over her pulse, losing himself in the heat of her body.

 

Lu Han wakes up hard, closes his eyes, and fists himself while the memory is still fresh in his mind. The rustle of fabric, the brush of her breasts against his chest, the way her lips—slick and bitten—had looked as they’d parted with every delicious moan.

Lu Han circles the crown of his cock, twists at the base, whimpers as he comes.

His breath puffs white against the embossed red letters of his textbook as he pants. His back and neck ache from the uncomfortable angle. And his cheeks sticks as he lifts his head, scrambles for his phone.

_i was straight_ , he texts Yixing, typing hastily with his non dominant hand, wiping his dirtied one absently along his clothed thighs. _i had a dream and i was straight._

It’s 3 AM, but Yixing sends back a _;)_. Follows with _i mean it makes sense that you would be in /one/ lifetime right??????_

Lu Han sends back a _fuck you_ , stumbles into his bed, and chucks off his tacky boxers and sweatpants.

 

Baekhyun is a string stretched taut, stretched too tight. But some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders that Friday night at Kyungsoo’s apartment.

It’s a shindig, a breather, a chance to blow off some steam, get really, really drunk, and remember that we _love_ each other.

And Baekhyun drinks too much, flirts with Jungah, a pretty dance major a year his junior, an extra in the play. And he’s obnoxious, sloppy, loud, extra shrill, but Jungah smiles at him, wraps long thin arms around Baekhyun’s shoulders as they move in a slow, dirty grind.

Lu Han, there under strict obligation, in a show of solidarity, drinks just to pass the time, leaning back against one of Kyungsoo’s lumpy couches to watch.

Kyungsoo shotguns two beers, plants a wet, sloppy kiss on his very surprised, very red roommate’s mouth. Yixing drapes himself across Sehun’s lap, reaching up to ruffle the younger’s hair as Sehun—petulant and pouting—takes slow sips from his can of Hawaiian Punch. (You’re too young to drink, my little baby, Kyungsoo had said. I can look the other way, but you _know_ you’re too young to drink, my little baby)

And drinking is bad when he’s this vulnerable, Lu Han knows. Alcohol blurs the lines further. Makes him want and need and it’s so _much_. But he just needs to not be sober.

Yixing catches Lu Han’s eyes as he’s pinching Sehun’s sides, trying to provoke laughter, and Yixing pats his thigh, comes over and drags Lu Han to the beanbag by Kyungsoo’s kitchenette before motioning him to speak. Yixing has this weird sixth sense about these type of things, Lu Han thinks, dazed, as he drags his nails across the ugly pink leather material, and Yixing blinks up at him.

“ _Talk_ , Lu Han,” Yixing says after a moment, casting a quick glance back at Sehun, who has completely retreated into himself at this point. Knees curled to his chest, eyebrows pinching in a scowl.

“I’m just—it’s never been this _bad_ , Yixing. I’m worried that I’m not gonna be able to rein it in time. And I feel so _ugly_ inside.”

Lu Han’s on his fifth or sixth beer, and his tongue feels thick, his brain fuzzy. But Yixing, Yixing is also good at this. At listening, compelling the words forward even when Lu Han can still hardly make sense of them.

“And do—do you even know what it’s like?” he asks, blearily as Yixing swims in his vision, moves closer to touch his thigh. “Knowing you’re gay and taken at 7 years old? Before—before you’ve even had a _chance_?”

“No, Lu Han.”

“I—I hurt myself once over him. I remembered that last night. And it’s what, five days until the play, and he’s not even—I don’t know if he’s even worth all of this.”

“He _will_ be.”

“That’s not _fair_ to me. This isn’t fair to me, Yixing. I feel hollowed out, you know. I feel like I’m always just waiting for this. Like this is everything to me, and I’m not—”

“Penelope awaiting her Odysseus,” Yixing cuts in.

And Lu Han remembers that play, too. Second semester, under Yunho’s direction. Remembers the dreams. The rich scent of pomegranates, the heavy kiss of salty air against his skin. He’d been a woman that time, too, a seafarer’s wife, jeweled hands curled around the balcony, eyes narrowed and desperate as they’d watched the selfish sea.

“I’m not!” Lu Han insists.

“I know, but it’s just...The point is that there’s something you’re supposed to have. And it keeps tugging you back to remind you. So you don’t forget.”

Lu Han’s chin knocks against his knee, and he feels Yixing’s hand pat along his back.

“As if I’m supposed to wait and _save_ myself for him?”

“Have you?” Yixing asks, his tone delicate.

“ _Fuck_ no.”

Yixing laughs.

Lu Han thinks about grabbing Yixing’s shoulders, dragging him forward into a kiss just to prove a point to himself, to the universe, to that _man_ that insists Lu Han is his and has been from the very beginning of time. But Yixing’s laughter is dimpled and ringing, and it’s not right, Lu Han knows. His lips wouldn’t be right.

Lu Han kicks at Yixing’s legs to let him know he’s done, and his best friend rises smooth and slow as Lu Han scrambles to the kitchen for another beer.

He’s on his fifth, maybe sixth beer, head knocking against Kyungsoo’s refrigerator magnets, when Baekhyun, hair all mussed up, mouth all messy from Jungah’s lipstick, calls him over.

“Lu Han,” he says, slow, slurred, but strong. “Come here. I need to talk to you.”

He’s barely a year older, but Lu han can see the haggard wariness on his face as he falls beside him on the couch, the telling darkness underlining his glazed, sleepy eyes.

“You know, your understudy,” Baekhyun cocks a finger, and Lu Han spares a glance at Sehun. Sehun’s face is contorted into something between a scowl and longing as he stares after Joonmyun, a philosophy grad student and Kyungsoo’s tutor from two semesters ago. Sehun is sucking his lower lip into his mouth, shoulders straight, eyes soft. And Baekhyun leans further forward, voice low, but desperate, distressed. “Sehun is—Sehun isn’t—”

“I know—”

“Do you, though? Do you really? Do you know what that’s like?” he asks him pointedly. Lu Han drops his gaze, scrapes his nail against the inseam of his pants. “To depend on other people?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to replace you, but this is _it_ for me, Lu Han. Do you understand? This is _it_. After this, after this, I’m _done_. I don’t get another chance. And you—you keep just—How am supposed to—Do you understand?”

His eyes are wide, and their knees knock together as he drags him closer. “Tell me,” he says. “Fucking _tell_ me what’s going on.”

Lu Han’s mouth opens, closes.

“I just get—I get...lost,” he say. “It’s like…a memory or a vision or something and I can’t…”

Baekhyun sighs heavily, chin knocking against Lu Han’s shoulder. His words are muffled by the material of Lu Han’s shirt.

“You just... you have this sadness, you know. In your eyes. Like this incompleteness. It’s melancholic and fragile and kind of desperate, and that’s—that’s so _good_ for this. It’s just—people want to protect you, and they want to fix things for you. They _hurt_ for you. They hurt for Lee. It’s just—you’re just this delicate, beautiful thing, and _fuck_. Sehun is good—he’s a _damn_ good kid— but Sehun doesn’t have that spark. Sehun doesn’t make you _want_.”

Baekhyun’s hand falls heavy on Lu Han’s knee, long thin fingers squeezing hard to emphasize his point.

“It’s whatever gives you that sadness, right? What makes you so good at expressing _want_. That’s what—that’s why you keep getting... lost?”

Lu Han nods slowly, swallowing thickly past the lump in his throat.

“Fucking _fuck_.”

Baekhyun takes a slow drag of his beer, tongue curling around the tip as he sighs.

“It’s kind of like... do you believe in soulmates?” Lu Han asks, tries.

Baekhyun blinks with the deliberate, unsteady slowness of inebriation.

“No.”

“Nevermind then.” Lu Han shakes his head, and Baekhyun follows the movement, eyes heavy-lidded.

“Just _fix_ it,” Baekhyun groans. “Fucking _fix_ it, Lu Han. You can’t—can’t—please just—Opening night is tomorrow. I need you to _promise_. ”

He knocks his head back as he takes another swig. Baekhyun anchors himself on Lu Han’s thigh, murmurs something about needing to take a leak.

 

Lu Han is starting up blearily at the glow-in-the-dark stars Kyungsoo has plastered to the wall as he thinks. Trying to spell out his own name. Those of his friends. The names he’s called the man, woman, _person_ , he’s supposed to love. And Sehun plops beside him, annoyance sharp beneath the exterior of almost hero worship that always colors his expression, as he tugs on Lu Han’s shirt sleeve.

And Lu Han’s been trying his patience. Lu Han’s been hurting his pride.

“You’re not even trying,” Sehun starts to say, raising his hand, pressing his finger to Lu Han’s lips when the elder tries to speak. “You’re not even _trying_. Yixing—Yixing told me that sometimes you zone out. Like you get in _too deep_. You retreat too much into your head. And I _get_ it. But you're not even trying at this point.” Lu Han opens his mouth. Sehun glares. “No—no, you’re not.”

“I _am_

“No, you’re _not_. You’re _not_. You just fucking stop in the middle of rehearsal. And you keep apologizing to Baekhyun, but not to _me_. Not to _Tao_.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I’m supposed to be a last resort. And I want to perform, but I’m also just a fucking last resort.”

And this close, Lu Han can smell the alcohol on him. Wonders blearily whom he charmed to pull that off.

“Say you’re sorry,” he mumbles, petulant, the fight and bite leaving his voice. Sehun is always emotional, but alcohol only makes him worse at hiding it. “Say you’re sorry and _mean_ it. Say you’re sorry and _fix_ it.”

Sehun’s head falls heavy on Lu Han’s shoulder, and Lu Han can feel the pout he presses to his neck. “Sorry,” Lu Han whispers back, tapping his chin against Sehun’s chin.

Lu Han stays like that so long that Sehun’s breath deepens with sleep. Lu Han pets his bangs back, smooths the scowl on his face, lets him fall a little unceremoniously on Kyungsoo’s beat up couch.

(Kyungsoo will take care of him, his little baby. Will bring him a blanket, a pillow, lend Sehun his too-small, too-tight clothes. Will probably cook him breakfast in the morning. Sooth him through his probable hangover, even though he’d _warned_ him about this)

And Lu Han, Lu Han is drained, drunk, damaged.

He just wants to get the fuck home.

He gives a quick bob in Kyungsoo’s direction as he stumbles towards the door.

 

“Use it,” Yixing laughs, drunk now, too. Lips shiny and pink with what Lu Han assumes is women’s lipstick, he makes a grab for Lu Han's arm. Holds Lu Han back as he blinks up at him through his thick eyelashes, his dimple peeking out. An _angel_ , Lu Han thinks because he’s drunk, because he’s also sentimental, because Yixing _is_ even if Lu Han can see that the lipstick has smeared into his shirt collar, too. “Don’t ruin it for him, you know. Don’t—don’t ruin it for everybody. I think just—just _use_ it. Channel it. Turn into the skid, Lu. Embrace the chaos.”

Lu Han nods slowly, drunkenly.

But they don’t—none of them, not even Yixing—understand.

This is bigger than them. This is his destiny in its entirety, clamoring out for him, drowning out everything else.

And Lu Han's just stumbling towards it. Screaming back into the darkness to make sense of it all.

 

Lu Han falls into his bed, fully dressed, shoes and socks on. His head lolls to the side as he remembers first kisses, drunken dares. An “I bet—I bet it’d be nice to kiss, you know. Just to try it out, just to _see_. It doesn’t have to mean anything, right? It’s just—it’s just _practice_. I mean, we’re best friends. It’s helping each other out.”

The taste of alcohol had been thick on the man’s tongue as his lips had coaxed Lu Han’s open, cupping his cheeks, thumbing over Lu Han’s cheekbone in the thick, night air. And Lu Han, overbold, the pleasant buzz of alcohol singing in his veins had pulled him back into another and another just—just to be sure.

 

Opening night, and Lu Han is tense, skin small, heart heavy. A mess of thinly veiled nerves, shaky limbs, trembling lips. He breathes hard through his mouth, fans himself as Kyungsoo fusses over Lu Han’s makeup—thick, caked on white foundation plastered heavy and slimy over his flushed cheeks, red red red on his lips, on his cheeks, black on his brows. He sighs heavily, purses his lips, tugs on Lu Han’s hair to hold him still.

“Breathe,” Kyungsoo reminds him. “Breathe.”

Lu Han _can’t_. Not quite. Not right.

Sehun flutters nearby. Face as tense and worried as his features will allow. Arms crossing and uncrossing, long thin legs jittering as he watches Lu Han.

And Yixing, as he had during their freshman year, during Lu Han’s role as Lysander, holds his hands, whispers to him in Mandarin. About how amazing he is. About how this play is in his veins already. About how many scrabble words the school newspaper will use when writing about this. About the _stellar_ performance from the really handsome, really talented Lu Han.

And Lu Han laughs breathily, squeezes back hard.

Yixing rubs his thumbs against Lu Han’s knuckles, presses their foreheads together, and Lu Han mouths back the words.

 

But it’s that _something_ that Yunho had praised that opening night 3 years ago. It’s that something that journalism majors scribble in their notebooks about. That _something_ that’s _his_ —completely his, completely independent of the _man_ —oozing out of his pores as he squares his shoulders, shimmers in the overhead lights.

Lu Han loses himself, sheds his own skin, burns up with the furor of another person’s love.

 

And he gets mixed up, confused, needy, assaulted with the memory of it halfway through, as Tao—John—leans forward to stage whisper in his ear.

Because suddenly Tao smells like old leather, paraffin, his small nimble sword thrower, juggler fingers smoothing over the wrinkles of Lu Han’s costume. They anchor him to the sharp tent pole, hold him down, hold him steady.

Lu Han’s can taste the bitter wax of his own rouged lips as the man tips forward to kiss him. Chaste and closemouthed, but hard, so Lu Han’s lips part with a soft moan. _The man_ cradles his head, tilts him further downward, his thumb smearing at the thick white makeup as he sighs into his trembling mouth.

Tao’s hands are on his waist, his mouth near Lu Han’s trembling lips. And Lu Han—Lee—lolls forward, protests weakly in a stage whisper because we’re too—this is _wrong_. The hands tighten, nails scraping against the starched white of his tight costume, and no, no, the hands should be smaller, fingers softer. There should be soot under his fingernails, a childhood scar painting the area between the second and third knuckle on his left ring finger.

The clenching in his chest only grows tighter, constricting against his lungs, his heart, until he can’t breathe. Until his entire body feels tense with it.

And he trembles, doesn’t will it away, just lets himself _feel_. Lets himself ache.

He goes through the motions of being loved. Being implored. Being needed. Being hidden. Being forbidden. Being torn apart. Being broken.

Uses it. Uses it. Uses it.

 

The heaviest stage production is in their acrobatics. Bungeed, spandexed dance majors—Jungah, Taemin, Hyoyeon—drawing attention, raising expectations.

But it’s Lu Han’s monologues—distressingly simple things—under harsh stage lights, that define the play. And those, those are the hardest for him. Trying things that have him accessing an ugly, vulnerable part of himself, raw and open and so painful to the touch.

It’s vocalized fear of discovery. Fear of surrendering. Fear of feeling. Fear of _everything_.

And that’s what makes the play sympathetic. That’s what makes it real.

It’s Lu Han. Like this. His voice wavering, thick and raw, eyes shining with tears, hands wrung together, body stiff.

What’s the point, Lu Han thinks, sobs out. If we’re not ever allowed to be real?

And Lu Han almost whimpers at those same words. Hot and delicate and fleeting against Lu Han’s trembling lips. In an inverse. The man breathing them as he cradles Lu Han’s face with a painful tenderness.

“I can’t want you the way you want me to.”

And Lu Han’s heart shatters, cracks open as he bites back a whimper.

In the present, he’s blinking back tears, voice, heart broken.

“I can’t,” he says. “I’m not,” he insists.

And Baekhyun is gaping at him and Yixing is blinking rapidly and Lu Han’s heart won’t slow down.

It cuts to black as he reaches forward, voice and eyes and entire body heavy and dark with sadness and need.

“I can’t. I won’t.”

 

The applause—the deafening applause—is white noise.

He’s numb as Tao throws an arm around him. As the other actors—Dongwoo, Sungmin, Taekwoon—crowd over him, squeeze his hand. As he bows, Lu han is completely numb save for the dull ache, the racing pulse of his overwhelmed heart.

As the velvet curtains fall with a heavy, whooshy drop, Baekhyun bounds forward to squeeze Lu Han’s face between his hands. Kiss him squarely on the mouth. And Sehun reaches forward to pull him into a tight, bony hug. And Yixing tugs him away, too, musses Lu Han’s hair. And Lu Han thinks maybe at one point Kyungsoo kisses him, too. And somebody that smells and feels like Chanyeol throws a heavy arm around his shoulders. And there’s praise—too loud compliments—flitting past his ears as Kyungsoo peels off his clothes, drags a makeup removing wipe over Lu Han’s slow blinking face.

“Dinner!” Somebody is screaming.

“Drinks!” Somebody else counters.

“Lu Han!” Baekhyun interrupts to kiss him again. This time on the cheek, patting his side affectionately. “Fucking Lu Han!”

Lu Han registers it in kind. The pain, the warmth, the wetness, the love and affection, the cold hardness of his backstage bench as he shifts uncomfortably in his own skin. In the after acting, after memory daze.

A sharp, sudden ache—bone deep, stinging burn—manages to pierce through the stupor of it as he realizes that tomorrow he’s going to have to _again_. His head lolls forward, and Sehun is telling him he’s not allowed to be in a weird funk. He’s not allowed to be sad. Not, not after what he just managed to do on stage.

Sehun’s voice and hands are softer—softer than Kyungsoo’s—as he hands over Lu Han’s pants, his shirt. And Lu Han nods, smiles even as he sits there in his boxers and undershirt.

Yixing tsks at Lu Han to hurry the fuck up, everybody else is _done_. They’re gonna meet at Applebee’s.

And Lu Han registers the annoyance, too. The warm blip of anger, the scrape of denim and cotton as he tugs on his clothes.

Yixing hauls up, arm tangled with his as they stumble out. Lu Han flushes hot in the night air as Yixing supports his weight, tells Lu Han, too, over and over again how proud he is.

Lu Han chokes on a laugh as he sags against the red brick building, feels the cool stone scrape against his still numb skin. Waits for it to pass.

Yixing lingers at his side, chin near his temple, hand around his elbow, voice in his ear, rising and falling with his lilting, regionalized Mandarin. Changsha thick, Changsha soft. A lullaby of sorts, comforting in its tenderness.

 

Sensation returns to Lu Han’s limbs when he spots him. Sudden, surprising as he catches _his_ eyes. _Fuck_ those eyes.

He’s lingering by the doors, brandishing a bouquet. A dance student, too, introducing himself as a senior in a rapid rush. Out to see Jungah—my baby sister, he laughs—watch her performance. And the man blinks quickly as he catches Lu Han’s eyes, taps his bouquet absently against his thighs. He closes the distance in two strides.

Yixing raises an eyebrow, then nods quickly, dropping Lu Han’s elbow. With a small, secretive smile.

Yixing was there, too, that time, Lu Han wants to tell him. Face different, paler, harder, but eyes and smile the same. A tightrope walker, dimpled, knowing, a confidant. He would stand watch at their tent. Hold Lu Han as he trembled with the after effects of their sweeping, consuming love. Yixing—Yixing followed him, too, from that life to this life. They _are_ kindred spirits, and Lu Han wants to tell him.

But Yixing is leaving. And the man is clenching and unclenching his fists as he stands there. And Lu Han’s entire body feels raw and exposed as he catches his eyes once more.

Lu Han swallows hard. The man spares a glance at Yixing’s retreating form.

“My name is Minseok,” the man says in overbold Korean, and Lu Han blinks in confusion. Minseok flushes. Lu Han has seen that shade of pink coloring his face before. Dusted light and shy after first kisses, blooming warmly as they’d rolled into each other on sticky summer nights, blossoming and spreading to his chest after exhausting thorough uses of Lu Han’s body.

Minseok laughs. “I’m sorry I just—I’m sorry you looked—My name is Minseok. This—this is for you.”

Lu Han continues to gape. The man—Minseok—shifts uncomfortably. Wiggles the bouquet once for Lu Han to take it. Lu Han does. Grips it too hard so the flowers wrinkle. The man’s eyes do, too. And _fuck_ those eyes.

This moment in time, Lu Han wants to say, this very moment, is like coming home again. But his tongue is too thick in his mouth. And everything is so, so, so vivid and overwhelming. And his chest is too tight. And his heart—is trying to escape. And he can’t fucking _breathe_.

Lu Han had only been dimly conscious before, the man— _Minseok_ —a distant fleeting abstract. But Lu Han now feels hyperaware, the sensation almost painful as his heart turns over in his chest.

We belong together, Lu Han’s entire body screams. We were _one_ at one point. For one glorious moment in time. I loved you once. I loved you many, many times. And I need—I need—

He’s lethargic in the beats between breaths, his chest, his chest contracts sharply, expands, brimming, overflowing with sudden love, with sudden, sharp need. What he’d felt before, what had been so powerful, he’d ached, was only an echoed, diluted fondness. It’s dizzyingly intense, multiplied tenfold, leaves him reeling.

And he still hasn’t spoken.

But he makes a sound.

Minseok’s eyes crinkle downwards as his face scrunches in momentary confusion. And Lu Han remembers how to move his mouth.

“You,” he says finally. “ _You_ ”

And Minseok’s face contorts into something familiar. A phantom memory, the phantom pain of a long forgotten injury. But it’s still there. He’s still—here.

“Me,” he agrees. “ _Minseok_.”

“Lu Han,” Lu Han offers. “My name is Lu Han.”

Minseok reaches forward to take his hand. The scar isn’t there, but Lu Han fights down the jolt, fights back a shudder as a warm, perfect palm presses against his own.

 

Applebee’s is within walking distance, and Minseok shoves his hands into his pockets, sharp shoulders slumped as he walks with Lu Han. Starts and stops various conversations with him.

“Do you—I mean have you—”s mixing with the thump of their shoes against concrete.

“You were really amazing,” he manages as they cross the street, and Lu Han crinkles his flowers further as he hums in acknowledgment, voice still raw in his throat, heart still raw in his chest. His fingers itch to cut the formalities of it all. To pull Minseok into a kiss and demand he _love_ him again.

Lu Han shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and Minseok’s lips purse in thought.

“This is,” he starts, turning to face him. And the neon light falls beautifully on his rounded cheeks, caressing his face in soft yellows, oranges, blues. And that’s—that’s new, Lu Han thinks. Never has Lu Han ever wanted to kiss the breath out of him in the parking lot of a family restaurant. Never has he admired the way the neon glow casts shadows across the contours of his face. “This is gonna sound...weird,” Minseok continues. “But I—” he sighs. “ _You_.” He speaks with his hands, motions up and down Lu Han’s body. “I _know_ you. You—you’re—”

Lu Han shudders, drops his flowers. “Dreams,” he interrupts. Minseok nods slowly, carefully. “You have—dreams about me and you? From—from before?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Minseok says. “And it’s weird, but I—I _know_ you. And I—”

“ _Love_ me,” Lu Han finishes.

Minseok’s bangs fall in his eyes as he bows his head, and Lu Han itches to reach forward and brush them away. Cup Minseok’s cheek, thumb over his dark eyebrows as he cradles his face, lets him feel how treasured he is, holds him as close as he possibly can.

But Minseok lets out this soft sound, low in his throat. And _fuck_ those eyes as he peeks up at Lu Han from beneath his eyelashes. _Fuck_.

“Let’s—let’s go inside.”

 

Minseok sits with his sister, Jungah, and her dancer friends while Lu Han plops down at a table with Yixing, Kyungsoo, Sehun, Jongdae. Lu Han eats, laughs, feels Minseok’s eyes on him as he does.

Later that night, as Lu Han is preparing to leave, Minseok presses a folded napkin to Lu Han’s palm.

Lu Han flushes as Chanyeol whoops.

 

Lu Han lays in his boxers, sheets and bedding twisted near his feet, fingers tapping absently along his stomach. A glance at his bedside alarm reveals it’s 2:13AM.

_hi_ , he sends after much deliberation. Typing, deleting, retyping _i love you_.

_it freaked me out_ , Minseok responds, a minute later.  
 _when you asked me if i loved you_

_im sorry_

_i /do/_   
_that freaks me out_   
_it was easier when you weren’t real_   
_when you were an idea_   
_i dont know what to do now that ive found you_

Lu Han stares at his phone for a good minute. Types and retypes. Sighs.

_can we meet up_   
_just to talk about this_

_yeah_

_im free thursday, friday_

_friday_

_coffee at the cafe near the philosophy building? 4ish?_

_yeah_

Minseok sends a smiley face emoji, and Lu Han a winky one. He turns off his phone before he has a chance to regret it.

 

It’s easier, now. That Minseok is real. A man—real, flesh and bone, and soft soft skin—who loves him back. Kind of. Sends him pictures of his face at various times in the day. Texts to ask him how his day is going. His favorite color, song, book, movie, actor.

It’s easier now to go into that dark, heavy, vulnerable place. Now that he knows he can come back safely. Hold onto the safety net that is Minseok’s reality—Minseok’s existence—real, after all this time.

Baekhyun still kisses him after performances (much to Lu Han’s chagrin). Sehun hugs him so, so tight. And Lu Han laughs as they ruffle his hair, thumb teasingly at his tears.

 

Minseok is punctual. Hums as he sets his iced Americano across from Lu Han’s green tea latte, smile wide and open. Lu Han’s grin is one of relief.

“Tea,” Minseok notes, laughing as he sets down his messenger bag. “One time we— _you_ —You were one of those courtesans. And you _sang_ to me. I—I came in my pants. And we—”

“You broke my heart,” Lu Han cuts in. Minseok’s eyes flash with something brief, vaguely ugly.

It’s fleeting, but his back stiffens, doesn’t relax even after he’s softened his eyes.

Bitterness laces his voice. “You broke mine back.”

Lu Han doesn’t know how to respond, so he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. And Minseok’s fingers are skating over his.

“You always wanted more than I could—” He holds his palms up. Lu Han swallows heavily. “I wanted—I wanted to give you everything, but it’s always—”

“Doomed”

“Yeah, doomed. We’re always…”

“You’re gonna break my heart,” Lu Han says.

“And you’re gonna break mine back. Forget me. _Hate_ me. Lather, rinse, repeat.”

Beautiful, violent collisions that remind Lu Han that he’s alive and that he exists concurrent, coincidental, concentric circles tighter and tighter until they crash, shatter. Falling together only to fall apart. In a devastating, heavy kind of explosion.

We weren’t meant to. We never never never. We always break.

“I never forget you,” Lu Han counters. “I never, ever hate you.”

Minseok shakes his head. “That’s not true. You’ve told me.”

“I—I lied. And I still want to _try_ ,” Lu Han insists, after a moment. “You—you break my heart in the most beautiful way,” he says. “And I keep coming back for you. You won’t _leave_ , and I don’t _want_ you to.” Minseok’s smile is rueful. “I want to try. I want you to try with me again.”

“I—I do, too.” Minseok’s exhales slowly.

Minseok’s hands are smaller than his, but he cradles them in his nonetheless, delicately as if Lu Han is extra fragile.

“It was your eyes,” Minseok says after a beat, a pregnant pause that leaves Lu Han jittery, just slightly off-kilter. Too scared to hope too much.

“Yeah?”

“They’re—they’re big and your eyelashes are so _thick_. Your eyes, they kinda...sparkle. Kinda...leave an impression. They’re so—you’re so— _beautiful_.”

Lu Han covers his hot blush with a loud laugh.

"That laugh too," Minseok sighs, tracing circles along Lu Han’s knuckles. "It’s—it’s not attractive. But it’s _you_. It’s like, it’s so _pure_ and genuine and you."

“It was your eyes, too,” Lu Han breathes.

Minseok blinks slowly.

“ _Yeah_ , like that.”

Minseok’s eyelashes flutter as he looks down. Sucks his lower lip into his mouth.

“When?”

“Eight. I saw your face in a history book. You were a ballerino in France. Your _form_ ,” he groans.

“You were an actor in a Japanese film.”

The _so that’s why you_ goes left unsaid. But hangs heavy in the air, nonetheless.

“I loved you. I _love_ you.” It’s easy to say. Easy to feel. Now that Minseok is real, swiping his thumb at Lu Han’s wrist.

Minseok smiles, just a slight, shy quirk of his lips. He bites it back, flushes. “God, I do, too. It’s just kinda—ah—overwhelming, you know. For this to be real. It’s still kind of weird...to be _touching_ you after—after all this time.”

“But it’s a good weird, right?” Lu Han tries. His heart catches, stuttering to a stop at the beautiful wistfulness glimmering in Minseok’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Minseok says after a beat. “It’s really, really good. And I want to—I do want to—I think we should try again.”

Minseok releases his hand, takes a long, long sip from his coffee, and Lu Han wants to kiss him. Wants to taste the coffee on his tongue. Because that would be new, too, he thinks. And he just really wants to touch and be touched back.

Lu Han reaches forward, thumbs at his mouth, and Minseok’s lips part. His eyelids shutter, and he breathes Lu Han’s name in a soft question. Lu Han shifts his hand, rubs slowly along his jawline, drops it to rest against his neck. He can feel Minseok’s throat vibrate as he speaks. Minseok lolls forward.

“But I really want to... not—we _hurt_ before. I don’t—I don’t want that. I think before it was always too fast. I think we need to honor this time. Go _slow_. And just—let us _be_. Just you and me. Minseok Kim. Han Lu.”

“You want to date me?” Lu Han laughs. “Go steady.”

Minseok’s throat bobs with his own laugh. Quiet, ringing, warm. Lu Han cups it with his palm, wants to treasure it forever. “Yeah. I want to love you the right way. This—this time at least.”

I’m here now, Minseok’s smile seems to say. I’m yours, the hands at his wrist seem to whisper. We could—we could be, his eyes seem to promise. And Lu Han remembers what those hands felt like, pushing him away. How those lips had rounded around countless goodbyes. Eyes unforgiving and ugly and wrong.

We always find each other only to break apart, Lu Han thinks. We always _hurt_.

And he remembers the sharp, ugly taste of heartbreak mixing with soju, with sake, with whiskey, with tequila, with mead. He remembers the dry cotton mouth of a hangover, regret, love lost.

But there’s still that tug—muscles compelled forward, eyes dragged to that disconcertingly beautiful face, those distressingly perfect eyes—and there’s that love. And Lu Han wants to press flush against him, erase all the boundaries. They _belong_.

But he swallows instead. And Minseok blinks up at him as Lu Han drags his thumb across his Adam’s apple. There’s a familiarity in that, too. As Lu Han remembers the whisper of his eyelashes kissing against his nose, his neck, his chest, and the taste—the heady musk—of that warm skin in the afterglow of something beautiful.

Lu Han knows they can be beautiful.

 

And dating Minseok is an exercise in exorcism. A ritual towards replacement. It’s disavowing themselves of all of their infinite befores, when they made each other hurt, broke what they had. It’s outwardly casual, restrained, cautious, but potent, heavy with the memory of their ugly, jagged pasts. With the promise to make it better this time. Make it last.

And their movements are deliberately languid, the most exquisite and overwhelming slowness. Lu Han tries to savor every second, luxuriate in the reality of this Minseok. His Minseok. Now and _real_.

Because Lu Han is already desperately, pathetically in love. But this learning to love him again. Love him for real. Love him for the him he is right now. Kim Minseok, who’s scared of cats, obsessed with electronic-heavy beats, Lifetime movies, Thrifty’s Pistachio ice cream. Minseok, who ties his shoelaces bunny style, smells like Old Spice and Altoids Cinnamon, taps his fingers in nervous tattoos of 2-2-1 every time he catches Lu Han’s eyes. Minseok, who laughs with his eyes, hugs with his _whole body_ , hums high in his throat, cheeks bright pink every time Lu Han reminds him he’s beautiful, that Lu Han is so, _so_ in love.

Because try as he might for blank canvases, clean reboots, fair chances at _real love_ , the words itch at his throat, tease at his tongue until he declares them recklessly, inopportunely.

“You remind me all the time,” Minseok tells him, on their fifth date, one month in. He’s flustered as Lu Han leans forward to whisper it once more, fingers ghosting at Minseok jawline, touch intimate, tender in McDonald’s fluorescent light. “Even when you’re not—even without your words. Your eyes are so _full_ of it.”

Lu Han’s heart is even fuller, though. Almost too heavy in his chest. Love overflowing so that it seeps his veins, stains his words whenever he’s with Minseok.

“I can’t help it,” Lu Han responds, without a trace of remorse in his voice, only the faintest, most affected pout on his bottom lip as Minseok’s ears flare bright red. “I can’t help it when I’ve been wanting you for so long. When I can finally _have_ you.”

 

Minseok leans forward to kiss him hard before he leaves that night. Presses Lu Han tight against Lu Han’s stuccoed wall, the cotton of his shirt scraping against awful-looking polkadot wallpaper as he murmurs that he wants Lu Han to think of _him_ only. The real him. The him that he controls. Not the befores. Not the ones that weren’t enough. No, Lu Han should think of the only Minseok that matters. The one that loves Lu Han back even though it’s scary and doesn’t make sense. The one that’s pressing against him right now, mouthing slowly and carefully along Lu Han’s throat.

Lu Han nods dumbly, tugs Minseok up to his height to kiss him again. But deeper. Openmouted. Wet.

And Minseok’s mouth tastes familiar, hot, comforting, but in a long-forgotten childhood memory kind of way. It’s a flavor he can’t quite place, ticking at his consciousness. Synapses fried, mouth wet, brain fuzzy with it, as he pulls away to breathe Minseok’s name.

Minseok doesn’t let him get too far. Pulls Lu Han back to let him taste it again and again, swallow Minseok’s soft breathy sounds, release his own, kiss over and over and over again until their lips are tingling and swollen, and Minseok’s hair is mussed up. And he really, _really_ has to go home now, Lu Han.

Lu Han nods slowly, drunkenly, sucks Minseok’s bottom lip into his mouth as he cradles Minseok’s face in his hands. Just one more time to hold him through, he murmurs. Minseok groans into his mouth as Lu Han scrapes his teeth, curls his tongue.

Minseok hums, moans, cups Lu Han’s cheek to hold him back from deepening it further. Lu Han’s answering hum is imploring, needy. And Minseok’s eyelids are heavy, his eyes hazed over in a distressingly familiar, yet achingly new way. He drags his thumb across the scar on Lu Han’s bottom lip, notes absently, recklessly, that this is new, that _fuck_ he needs to explore Lu Han’s skin. Map every beautiful, perfect inch. Because even just kissing him, even just touching him like this has Minseok _aching_ to—

“Right now,” Lu Han interrupts, arching forward, hips crashing against Minseok’s, arms tightening around his waist. “You can—you should—I want—I _want_ —With you, I want—so long—”

Minseok groans, disengages more acutely, arms bracketing Lu Han’s shoulders as he sighs heavily, presses his forehead against Lu Han’s. Their eyes lock. Minseok’s eyes are heavy and dark and hot on his. “I have to go,” he insists. “I _have_ to.”

And when Lu Han touches himself that night, it’s to the memory of the raw, unguarded want in Minseok’s eyes. Eyes closed, one hand wrapped tight around his cock, the other tangled in his own hair, as his moans crest and break over Minseok’s name.

 

It's just another month before—a total of two official _courtships_ —before Minseok follows through on his promise.

And, it’s fast—too, too fast—to feel this desperate, to be this affected, to be this invested.

(But in the mean time, Sehun, face pinched in worry, comments on it almost absently, long legs tucked underneath him on Kyungsoo’s lumpy coach. He leans forward to rest his hand on Lu Han’s shoulder, falsely casual in a stutteringly endearing way, with an _I’m happy for you, hyung, honestly, but I think—maybe—he’s nice, and you guys are good—but I just don’t want you to get hurt from wanting and needing so much so soon. Because you know how intensely you...love, and I’m just trying to—look out for you_. At his side, Kyungsoo nods almost imperceptibly but decidedly, and Lu Han takes a long swing from his bottle, shrugs slowly as Sehun waits for a response. Yixing provides it instead, rambling, his voice slurred with alcohol because this is a Fuck Yeah Finals Are Over celebration after all, and it’s his last summer before his senior year. Yixing's voice is too loud as he drawls that Lu Han's found his soul mate, and beside that he’s 21 and definitely knows how to look out for himself, they don’t have to worry. Just look at the beautiful head on his shoulders, okay. And yes it's only been 2 months, but you know when people belong together—it doesn’t always make sense. But it _does_. Because love, no matter how fast, how intense, always, always makes sense.

And Yixing’s never careless when drunk, somehow knows to weigh his words, even as they stumble over one another. But Lu Han interrupts before he can take it further, clasps an arm around his best friend to reassure everybody that _yes_ , he’s in love and _yes_ , he promises to try not to get in over his head because _yes_ , it’s only been 2 months)

But it _isn’t_ too fast. Because it hasn’t been two months. It’s been 14 years. It’s been countless, infinite lifetimes before that. The vastness of his entire destiny and purpose reminds him with every passing second that Lu Han’s default, most natural state is _one_ with Minseok.

So he lets Kyungsoo sidle up to his side, tease him about how emotional he is. Because he knows. Watches amused as Sehun haltingly, awkwardly joins in.

Because Lu Han _knows_. By the answering shiver that Lu Han’s every movement provokes. By the burn and weight of Minseok’s eyes, his touch, his kiss, disengaging too soon, teasing them both, that he feels it, too. Wants it.

But it’s 2 months, 3 days, after they decided to try that Minseok asks to come home with him.

 

The campus has cleared for summer, and Minseok holds his hand—heedless, bright, laughing—as they bound towards his apartment in celebration of his completed essay (for his independent study, he’d begged for an extension, and Lu Han had held his hand and kneaded his sore shoulders, hand fed him snackfood as Minseok had laugh-sobbed through the entire 13 hour process).

And they’ve been teasing at this since that night. Minseok’s hand maybe just a little too high on Lu Han’s thigh, his kiss lingering just a beat too long, and his eyes— _fuck_ , those eyes—making quiet, dark promises in the dead of the night after Minseok has made a point of kissing him breathless. But there’s a purpose now. A goal in mind.

Lu Han fumbles with his keys as Minseok presses solid and firm against his back.

They stumble into each other as they stumble through the door. Kisses hot and sloppy and _needy_. Minseok falls on top of him, presses a knee between Lu Han’s thighs as he licks his way into his mouth. And Lu Han, Lu Han needs so much, then.

Lu Han tangles his fingers in Minseok’s hair, rolls upward into the hardness of his thigh, moaning into Minseok’s warm, open mouth. Minseok’s hands skitter underneath Lu Han’s shirt, as his tongue curls with his. And the slick, warm pleasure of it has Lu Han writhing upward even harder, interspersing breathless pleas with soft, broken chants of Minseok’s name.

And Minseok huffs out a laugh after a while. Pulls back to straddle Lu Han’s waist, bunching his hands underneath striped cotton, sweeping much more slowly—much more purposefully—over trembling, revealed skin. He tugs insistently until Lu Han’s shirt is pushed up near his armpits, smooths his hands reverently with a murmured “You’re so beautiful.”

Lu Han breathes hard through his mouth, tightens his hands around Minseok’s waist as Minseok grinds forward against his navel. Back against his erection. Once, twice, thrice. Moving in tiny circles that has Lu Han whimpering out more demands. No heat, just need.

Minseok tugs off his own shirt, urges Lu Han to follow suit. And their bare chests rub against each other as Lu Han tugs him down, kisses him again, begs him between drags of his lips to just please, they should just _please_.

“It’s so weird,” Minseok breathes instead, sucking at his neck. Lu Han bares his throat eagerly. “Because I’ve been touching myself to the thought of you since I first learned what masturbation was. And now you’re _mine_. And I can't quite—you’re _mine_."

“I was from the beginning,” Lu Han responds. “I’ve always, always been yours.”

Minseok hums in acknowledgment, rocks down onto him. “But now I get to touch you.”

“ _Touch_ me. _Claim_ me.”

And Minseok, mercifully, complies.

And it’s painful sometimes the way Minseok holds his hand. Knows just exactly how to cup his cheek. Just exactly how to kiss the corner of his mouth. It’s painful in a hauntingly, dizzyingly perfect kind of way. Those light, casual touches rendering him speechless, leaving him reeling. But now, it’s outright devastation when he touches him. For the explicit purpose, Lu Han registers with a whimper, of completely ruining him.

It’s not nearly thorough enough for the _exploration_ that Minseok promised. It’s a teasing, skimming overview, peeling back clothes. Minseok touching Lu Han like he remembers. Like he’s memorized all the planes of Lu Han’s body. Taken note of the especially sensitive areas. Minseok sucks hard just underneath his left earlobe, glides through his sternum. Lingers the longest at the pucker of his nipples, the concave dip of his stomach, the knobs of his hipbones, the swell of his inner thighs. Minseok lingers there the longest, blinking up at him teasingly, butterfly kisses inching their way up his skin as Minsek ignores his cock, sucks marks dangerously high on his legs instead. And Lu Han can see where Minseok is reaching to palm himself through his tight _tight_ pants, hips rocking smoothly down into his own hand. _Fuck_ that’s—Lu Han wants to—

Lu Han tangles his hands in Minseok’s hair, tugs hard until Minseok is meeting his eyes, licking his lips absently with a soft groan of a question.

“I wanna—for you on your knees—my turn—” Lu Han gestures clumsily, and Minseok grins crookedly, laughs nervously as Lu Han kneels in front of him, too. Minseok shudders as Lu Han drags experimental hands down the span of his chest. Minseok’s hard nipples scrape against the palms of Lu Han’s hands, and Minseok moans as Lu Han lingers in turn, too. Thumbs, strokes. Minseok’s stomach jumps with every soft sound he releases.

“Have you ever?”

Minseok nods slowly, lips parted, jaw slack as Lu Han pinches, rolls. “But it's scary with you. They were all—ah—auditions. Practice rounds.” Lu Han laughs breathlessly as Minseok tugs off his own jeans, boxers, trembles in anticipation. It’s endearing, and Lu Han leans forward to kiss his nose.

“It’ll be better this time,” he murmurs, shifting, pausing to kiss his fluttering eyelids. “Because we’re supposed to be together. And I love you.”

The blush from Minseok’s cheeks spreads to his chest, and he looks briefly vulnerable in the fading afternoon light. Lu Han’s breath catches in his throat as Minseok bites on his lower lip, eyes downcast. He murmurs back a shy “I love you, too.”

Lu Han’s heart aches from looking at him.

“I’m going to suck your cock now,” he informs him, crouching down to do just that.

Minseok groans as Lu Han takes the first experimental lick, groaning himself at the way it stretches his lips, the tremor that seems to run through Minseok’s body as Lu Han hums against the crown.

Minseok moans his name, and Lu Han bends almost fully forward as Minseok’s hands fall to his hair.

Minseok caresses his head as he suckles slow and wet along the head of his cock, eases into with lazy sucks and kisses until he’s sliding down for more, gasping against Minseok’s length.

Minseok’s fingers tease at his jawline, pet along his throat in slow, clumsy sort of reverence. And Lu Han moans, swirls his tongue, eyelashes fluttering at the musk and heat of Minseok pulsing in his mouth.

Lu Han grips his hips with one hand, uses the other to fist him as Minseok groans, pitches forward, face pinched in pleasure, eyes clenched shut.

“Come in my mouth,” he urges wetly, tongue dancing over the sensitive crown, humming as he blinks up at him through his eyelashes. “Yeah?”

“No, no,” Minseok insists, voice husky, low. “I think we should— _fuck_ —just get—”

Lu Han laughs, sure to puff the words out against Minseok’s cock. The latter’s hips jump at the sensation. “ _Fuck_. You think we should _fuck_?”

Minseok flushes further, eyes opening slowly. Suddenly imploring. “ _Yes_.”

“Then let’s—my room—”

Minseok tugs him up, nuzzles into his neck, breath hot, lips puffy from how much he’d bitten back his moans. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

And Lu Han’s legs are asleep, slowly coming back to the sensation of carpet burns, sore joints, but he’s falling into unmade sheets with Minseok. Minseok drapes himself over Lu Han’s bare body. He drags his cock against Lu Han’s stomach. The muscles jump as he moans at the warm weight of it, the line of transluscent precome that Minseok inadvertently smears on his trembling skin as they kiss again. Slower, now that Minseok controls the pace. Hands running down, pressing. Like they know—of course they _know_ —just where. _Distracting_. Infuriating.

But Lu Han knows, too. About the mole on his chest, the one at the back of his neck, the other on his left inner thigh. Knows to pull away from Minseok’s tempting mouth to suck hard on the hollow of his throat instead. Follow with the succulent drag of his tongue as Minseok pants his name.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” he offers in breathless challenge as Minseok rocks down. The head of Minseok’s cock brushes briefly against the base of Lu Han’s, and Lu Han manages a much breathier, less sure “Are you?”

Minseok noses at his neck, murmurs a soft “ _yes_.”

Lu Han reaches back underneath his pillow with a sudden blush, and Minseok chuckles, not unkindly, as he pops open the bottle of lube.

“It was to you,” Lu Han supplies softly. “ _You_ you. Not from before.”

“For me, too. It’s always to _you_. To my Lu Han.”

And then his finger is pressing inside, and Lu Han is gasping as Minseok glides down. He pulls to rest one of Lu Han’s thighs over his shoulder, kissing up his calves, licking along his knee. Lu Han lets himself work down on that finger, writhes desperately as Minseok adds a second, a third. Lu Han’s head lolls forward, chin crashing against his collarbone, lip catching between his teeth, entire body shuddering as he watches, _feels_ the ripple of muscles beneath Minseok’s smooth skin as he eases Lu Han open.

And here’s a brief flare of jealousy. For the people that came before Lu Han. The people that Minseok counts as auditions, but that had him first. But Minseok couples every delicious drag of his fingertips with a soft, breathy praise. Repeats over and over and over again that he’s wanted this _so_ long, and Lu Han—Lu Han is so perfect. So perfect for him. Everything he’s ever wanted. So hot. So _tight_. And _fuck_ so good, too.

And Lu Han flushes hot, whimpers as Minseok’s fingernail scrapes at his prostate, pressure firm, almost almost too much. Lu Han thrashes, the pleasure of it staggering, white hot as it jolts through his veins.

“Gonna come,” he whimpers. “Gonna come. Get inside me. Get inside me. Get inside me _now_.”

Minseok hesitates, and Lu Han sobs, as his thumbnail catches on his rim, skims the trembling, puckered flesh. Lu Han bows, arching towards the caress.

“Are you gonna? Are you gonna?”

And Minseok—now that his fingers aren’t _inside_ him—fumbles with his words. Pantomimes awkwardly.

“How do you want me?” he asks breathlessly, nervous, and Minseok’s hands are firm as they guide him to his knees. Lu Han shivers in anticipation as he hears the squelch of Minseok lathering himself with more lube. Minseok licks along the dip of his spine, and Lu Han does his best to stay upright.

And then Minseok is gripping his hips for leverage, teasing his cock up and down, hands tightening painfully as Lu Han attempts to grind back. Minseok nudges nudges nudges, the crown of his cock stretching at Lu Han’s rim, as he eases his way slowly inside. Lu Han’s fists clench into the sheets as he cries out.

Minseok groans against Lu Han’s skin, sweaty hair tickling along Lu Han’s back, as his hips rest flush with Lu Han’s ass. Lu Han trembles as he shifts. “Fuck,” he breathes, mouth hot. “ _Fuck_.”

And there’s a startling clarity to this moment, free of interruption. Just the heaviness of Minseok’s body, the warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips, the pleasant burn of his body inside Lu Han’s own.

And it’s the fullness of it, the exquisite stretch, the promise of completion in Minseok’s arms that leave Lu Han melting into the mattress, but working back weakly, desperately, scrambling for purchase as Minseok drives into him.

Minseok wraps an arm around him, drags him back, licking hotly, whispering filthy nothings as he _takes_ and _takes_ and _takes_. Lu Han shivers, savors.

This way he works back on Minseok, scrambles for purchase because Minseok is forceful and demanding and perfect. Minseok knows how hard to press, when to withdraw. When to circle his hips, dragging so hot and heavy inside of Lu Han’s practically wails at the sensation. And Lu Han trembles, moans, through every delicious thrust and retreat. Entire body suffused with pleasure and love.

And it’s not like he’s never done this before. But it’s never been like this. Pure and perfect and purposeful like this. It’s never felt like falling into place. Like relieving the ache in his bones. Realigning his matter.

The heady resolution of skin on skin leaves him reeling for more. But even then, Lu han knows it’s not enough. It’s not. Not yet. He needs—He needs—

Everything. All the yous before this. All the yous after.

But like always, like always, it has to do.

Lu Han claims in turn as he begs Minseok to go faster, go harder, let him know. That he loves him. Needs him. Needs this, too.

Minseok groans bites down on the dip of his spine as Lu Han sobs.

And gravity shifts, reverses as Lu Han is being flipped, falling onto Minseok’s lap. Lu Han, disoriented, chin lolling against his own shoulder, dazed with pleasure, marvels at the strength of Minseok’s arms, the supple skin stretched tight over muscle as Minseok tugs him forward by the hips. He’s a tangle of puppet limbs as Minseok guides Lu Han back onto his cock. It nudges against his ass as Minseok pauses to kiss him. Slow and deep as he rolls upwards to press against Lu Han’s skin.

Lu Han tugs at the nape of Minseok’s neck, trying to force him harder, and Minseok pants out a broken “yes.”

Lu Han braces himself on his Minseok’s shoulders, fingers sweaty, scrambling for purchase, as he starts a slow rhythm, bouncing weakly.

Lu Han’s head's spinning as it crashes against Minseok’s throat. He moans into his skin, arches into the tug of Minseok’s fingers in his hair as he rises and falls on his cock.

Lu Han licks over a mole at the dip of his throat, undulates, grinds down deep, and Minseok locks his hips suddenly. Rolls devolving into snaps, fast, heavy, unforgiving things that have Lu Han’s nails biting into Minseok’s shoulderblades, moans falling desperately from his parted lips. He clings even tighter, sounds only increasing in volume. He’s dragged into a messy, sloppy kiss as he grinds back clumsily, desperately, collapses forward, limp, needy with pleasure.

Minseok rasps out a husky “touch yourself” and Lu Han strokes himself as he bites down on Minseok’s neck, babbling desperately in a messy mix of Mandarin and English that he loves, oh God, he loves him. His cock. But also his soul. And God, he never wants him to stop. He needs, too.

It’s a blur of perfect execution. A timeless dance. This is, this is what they’re supposed to be. Together. Like this.

And Lu Han comes.

There’s a sacredness to sound, to movement, to space. A dizzying hyperfocus. Everything else fading away in an almost severe erosion of white light. And Lu Han can only think in superlatives, in hyperboles, in poetry. Time stands still. Starts up again with a disconcerting jolt as he feels Minseok pulse, release inside of him.

And it’s a rush of sensation, heat, pure, pure pleasure. Pure electrifying purpose.

And yes, he remembers, this was—this is what makes sense. The new Minseok, Minseok in his current iteration, _his_ Minseok, here, with him, like this.

 

They knock elbows, knees, shoulders in their post-coital shuffle, curling into one another.

Lu Han is almost scared to shatter the sacredness of the moment. Afraid to breathe too hard, touch too fast, speak at all. But it’s Minseok that does first. Manages a breathless huff of “so much better than my dreams.” Laughing loudly, pressing it tight to Lu Han’s clavicle. “Dream you—memory you—doesn’t—doesn’t move like that. _Fuck_ , Lu Han.”

“You were, you were good, too.”

Minseok presses a laugh, a lazy hum to Lu Han’s shoulder. And the perfection of them makes Lu Han’s entire body loosen, muscles lax, brain in a pleasant haze.

Lu Han is spent. Thoroughly fucked, thoroughly loved.

But vulnerable, raw in the aftermath.

 

In his younger, more naive days, he romanticized the tragedy of them. Trying to rationalize that there’d beauty in sinew, blood, tears. That there was a sort of broken appeal to catastrophe. But Lu Han knows, that there’s only agony. Only the hollowed out desperation, the aching, starvation, scrambling for scraps of affection, of satisfaction as a post-soulmate, post-destiny, post-purpose man.

Minseok’s consumed him. Ruined him. Left him a lonely, desperate, broken husk.

And it’s not beautiful. It never was. It’s helpless, ugly, so so so painful.

And Lu Han chokes in the present time as Minseok wraps an arm around him, skin sticky, flushed, beautiful and still, still _his_.

And the fear is persistent, lodges itself deep in his throat.

As he meets Minseok’s tired, boyish smile, reaches out to brush at the small, lazy crinkle of his nose. Minseok seems to sense it as he leans forward to touch the worry away.

“I don’t want to—,” Lu Han starts anyway, and Minseok kisses the rest of his sentence away. Lu Han’s hand reaches back, almost out of habit, to scratch along his head, but Minseok catches his wrist. Moves his mouth away to kiss that, too.

“You won’t. We won’t. I won’t let us.”


End file.
